


i think by now you should have learned

by ohmygodwhy



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: No pairings really, Other, POV Second Person, i ship nico w/ happiness, i tried i new writing style idk, that's the sound of me being dragged back into pjo hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:17:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygodwhy/pseuds/ohmygodwhy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five times Nico di Angelo runs and the one time he doesn't</p>
            </blockquote>





	i think by now you should have learned

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely satisfied with the b.o.o ending, but I'm at least glad my tiny angsty son got a happy ending
> 
> my first time writing anything pjo related, so I hope I did nico justice

 

 

 

The first time you run you’re young, tragically so. All wide eyes and endless questions and giggles and jumps and smiles fueled by curious enthusiasm- all of it wiped from your face like a flame in a storm because you aren’t feeling quite so happy anymore, not at all. You feel as cold inside as you do outside, cold and empty and lonely and confused, a mix of emotions blurring into a buzz in your ear, ringing with the sound of the words saying that she is gone gone gone. She’s gone gone _gone_ , disappearing with the wind and the screams in your nightmares, and standing in her place is the pinnacle of awe, a true hero- a _liar_ \- with apologetic looks not quite meeting your eyes and Bianca is gone. A stupid quest with nothing to show but a stupid figurine standing cold and lifeless in your hand- crashing to the ground when you throw it down.

You scream and you yell and you call him a liar- a liar a liar a liar you hate him you wish he was dead- but for all your biting words you can’t just let him die, you can’t let those things harm him, you want to save him and the ground listens.

And then you run.

 You run run run against the wind stinging your face and burning your eyes and blurring your vision. You run until your breath is ragged and your legs are shaking and every step hurts- not as much as the hot pit of anxiety and grief burning in your chest and you can’t _breath_ \- you run until you feel like your lungs are going to collapse, you run and run and run until you loose your footing and take a tumble in the snow giving way to a deep deep hole the size of the one in your heart. And as you lie there, out of breath and staring at the blue blue sky, things begin to sink in and you realize your sister is gone all over again and it takes you a very long time to stop crying.

 

 

* 

 

 

The second time you run, it’s _with_ him. Shot with pangs of anxiety and adrenaline and filled to the brim with fatigue and vague ‘maybe-he’ll-like-me-more’ s and ‘oh gods my dad is going to kill me’ s. When he comes bursting from the river full of life and _power_ you feel your heart stop for a split second, and when you see the distrust in his eyes when he looks at you, you feel it drop.

“Just go back to your father,” he says in response to your tentative statement about trust and you know if he held even the slightest semblance of liking towards you it’s gone now.

You think (you hope) you win some of that trust back when you answer his call, answer with the full force of the god of death himself and a few hundred literal spawns of hell, rolling and colliding and attacking in waves and waves of black. You see his parents and you see _her_ and you see him and you see people and monsters alike falling left and right like rain drops on the pavement (and you think maybe you’re too young for this- maybe in some other life twelve is still an age for naivety and laughter and stupid card games- then you remember that you’re actually much older than twelve and you never really had a chance at that kind of life to begin with).

You run and you fight and you fight and you slice and stab and try to ignore the cries of the people you almost wish you could call your friends, and you could almost cry in relief when you find out that he won, that _they_ won, that this ridiculous war is over. And people are hugging and laughing and crying, and you’re surprised yourself when you’re pulled into a hug with Percy’s mother who you’d almost forgotten was there, and she smiles at you the way mothers do and you nearly cry right there because you don’t deserve that gesture.

You receive a hero’s welcome on Olympus. You even get your own cabin. He smiles at you and you smile back despite the tiny ache in your heart that surfaces when you see him so happy hand in hand with her.

People even like you, for a little while. They let you sit at their tables and talk with you around the campfire and you feel welcome for a little while. And then that little while ends; you see the discomfort in their eyes when you walk into the dining pavilion and you think maybe it’s better if you leave.

 

 

 *

 

 

 The third time you run, it’s for your life. You think of Christian hell- the depictions of fire and screams and eternal suffering- you think of Nordic hell with it’s supposed endless stretch of icy snow, you think of Dante’s version of hell, and Buddism’s and Hinduism’s and all the other predictions and depictions you’ve read about in the back of libraries until your dyslexic brain got too clouded and you had to keep yourself from throwing the books in frustration, you mix them all up together in a twisted mess and decide that’s probably the best way to describe Tartarus.

And when you finally finally finally make it within sight of the doors, through the fires and the monsters and the taunts and voices telling you that you should die die die, that you’re hated hated hated, you’re caught.

 The tight confines of the jar is quite a different experience than the vast expanses of hell, and you find it almost funny that you’ll end up wasting away uselessly when you’ve tried so hard to be useful.

 

 

 *

 

 

The fourth time you run, you can’t. You’re trapped, literally and figuratively, alone with the cruel embodiment of love and the boy who’s probably the embodiment of perfection.

(It’s your own fault, you think. You offered to come, you dared him to come, you tested his limits- none of the others really trust you and you’re honestly not surprised, the weary glances they give you hurt nonetheless but you can’t really blame them for being on the defense).

And words spill from your mouth- disgusting disgusting disgusting words, words you’ve kept locked up in a tight little box in the confines of the heart you’re sure is black and withered (you thought you threw away the key a long time ago and now it’s thrown back in your face), and you can’t meet Jason’s eyes, because surely he thinks you’re disgusting disgusting disgusting, more slimy and scaly and filthy than you know he certainly already thought.

But you look up and there’s only pity- pity and understanding and something you can’t quite place, and that surprises you and almost scares you because that’s not the role he’s supposed to play (though with his morals and the way he thinks you suppose maybe it is).

“You should tell them,” he says, as though it’s easy and simple and you want to laugh or maybe cry or maybe even throw your damn sword at him, but you can’t and you don’t because he’s treating you like a human being and you’re not sure what to make of it.

 

 

 *

 

 

 The fifth time you run, you run with a purpose. You run to protect, you run to defend. You run with an uncertain yet completely certain confidence in your step because you’re going to fight to win. You run with people at your side who maybe don’t trust you, but will fight with you, and _god,_ do you fight.

You encounter the almost literal incarnation of sunshine and medical supplies that smell like hospitals and hope- he’s kind of angry at you and he has no right to be, but you’re in the middle of a life or death battle here and you really don’t have time to argue (no matter that you’re practically fading in the sunlight- whatever sunlight is visible through the curtain of arrows and smoke and cries- the camp and the world is at stake and if you die then you die, why can’t he understand that).

(You wonder again if maybe you’re too young for this- it’s been only two years since the last war, two years since you lost Percy’s trust and helped save the world a little bit, a stretch of time that feels like nothing at all and all of eternity- you also think the time you spent down in that pit screwed up your sense of time more than the stupid casino did).

But you win. Reyna’s voice shakes the crowds almost as jarringly as the quake of the statue landing on the battlefield. Octavian’s shrieks of saving the world ring in your ears and the explosion in the sky burns your eyes. But you _win._

 

 

 *

 

 

People died. A lot of people died that day. You can feel the losses in your bones and you can feel the bustling, smiling son of Hephaestus’s death- Leo wasn’t such a bad guy and his jokes were horrible but almost a relief from the impending doom you were all facing and now he’s gone and you think maybe it’s your fault.

People died and people were hurt and people were broken; there’s a heartbreakingly huge service to honor all of them. People cry and then people cheer and you’re brought up to face them and you get a hug and they cheer even louder and you _smile,_ because maybe you do fit in here- just a bit; maybe this time your welcome will last.

 

 

* 

 

 

The sixth time, you don’t run. You surprise yourself, and you surprise Jason, and surprisingly you don’t really seem to surprise Will. You surprise Percy (finally finally finally done, he’s a hero but that’s all he is to you now and you’re finally finally _done_ ), and you surprisingly don’t seem to surprise Annabeth either (in fact the high-five is one of the most satisfying things you’ve ever felt).

Hazel is still there, still smiling, and you know she’ll be in good hands.

Will demands you help out in the infirmary.

Jason has glasses now that make him look more like an adult and more like a child than he should.

Percy’s off to college with Annabeth and you’re truly happy for them.

The sixth time, you look at the camp and the wreckage and the people you’d be honored to call your friends, and you feel alive and _breathing_ for the first time in a long time.

The sixth time, you stay.

 

 

 


End file.
